


One by One

by Tierfal



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't you trust me?" It asks him, venom-sweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One by One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eltea](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Eltea).



> The prompt was "nightmare." I should not be allowed to write stream-of-consciousness fic. Actually, I should probably not be allowed to write fic in the first place, but that seems to be a lost cause.

—again again _now_ and there's nothing between It and him and It'll find him, take him, consume his _mind_ and _devour_ him—

And It's already got the Doctor, who's still on the floor, who can't move, can't run, can't hide, can't win, can't _save them_, and he told them himself he was the only one who could, and It's taken his words, It's sidling forward now, among them, infiltrating, and It's regurgitating his mind as if It has any right to spit his _trademarks_ with those cold, empty eyes and that thin, condescending smile, because It knows, It _knows_—

He feels violated already, and it hasn't even touched him, and he's shying away, but there's nowhere to go, because they're closed in, and there's nothing but the Midnight sun outside those sealed-shut doors, and It's going to _take them one by one_—

He can't panic, he can't, there isn't time, or space, or—or—the Doctor, he has to save the _Doctor_, the one person who's ever looked him in the fucking _eyes_ and heard his words, and—and—ohdearGod he thinks he loves him, he must, it's insane, but he _knows_ it somehow, knows and trusts, some part of him telling him that he hasn't learned it yet, but he should wait, because he will—

But he _can't_ wait, because the Doctor's dying, dying word by too-slow, too-vague, _repeated_ word, and it's _wrong_, the whole thing is just not _right_, because the Doctor is bright and vibrant and uniting and has shining eyes and a crooked grin and bursts out with crazy things and makes you believe that everything will be okay even though you _know it won't_—

And then It's there.

It sets a hand on either of his shoulders, and he looks into eyes that are the opposite of the blinding space outside. They are so hollow that their very blackness is hungry.

"Jethro," It says, and It smiles with needle teeth.

"Jethro," the Doctor murmurs, distantly, motionless, still, but there's a twinge—isn't there a—?

It strokes a papery hand down his cheek, and there's nothing he can do but stare into the nothingness of those eyes.

"Don't you trust me?" It asks him, venom-sweet.

"…trust me…" the Doctor echoes, faintly, fading.

His breath sticks in his throat, and he fights back _trust me trust me trust me_—"_No_."

"But Jethro," It murmurs, raking Its fingernails down his neck. "I'm the only one you can trust now."

"…trust now…"

He's drawing in breath for a scream as his eyes open, and he's freezing, and the dark is stifling, and ohGod It must be here, It must, It must, _It is It's always here It's everywhere and he can't get away_—

But no—no, this is—this is the TARDIS, and—and here's the Doctor, and he's fine, he's fixed, they fixed everything, or the Hostess did, she saved them, and he left his parents because he knew, after that, what he'd missed and been missing, and the Doctor felt it too and let him, and they're _here_ now, both of them, together—

He settles again, trying not to tremble, unwilling to wake the Doctor for this, for a stupid nightmare he can't kill two months and a hundred alien monsters later, for his ludicrous enduring weakness.

Maybe he's panting too loud, because the Doctor rolls partway over, bleary and blinking without his glasses, looking smaller and realer in his white-and-blue-striped pajamas, and takes one look at his face and understands.

The warm, familiar arms slide around him, and he's pulled tightly to the Doctor's chest, and a practiced mouth dots gentle kisses on his temple, and he curls his fingers in the cotton and listens to the calm beating of two hearts together, slow and steady to balance the way his races.

But even his is slowing now, as he settles, as the Doctor whispers, "Come on, then," and "We're all right," and "Oh, _Jeth_ro," and runs those fingers through his hair. And it's still true, what he thought in the dream—what he thought with such conviction even there.

The Doctor _can_ make everything okay. And he will.


End file.
